Why is the sky blue? Law says it is due to the atmosphere being able to manipulate blue more than any of the other colors; blue travels in smaller waves. A scientific answer for a scientific question. What if we removed science from the equation and then asked why the sky is blue? Maybe it’s blue because it is a luxurious swimming pool for the gods or the heavenly angels’ favorite color. An answer that is whimsical, magical, yet very unlikely. Still, I would rather believe in a wrong answer than in an answer that wouldn’t allow me to believe. Those kinds of beliefs can become a scapegoat for reality. That’s what I like about them.

“Don’t just sit there! Do something, you idiot! It’s boiling over!” Chelsea, my little sister, yells from her comfortable couch domain. She wildly waves her hands, motioning to the pot of soft macaroni that is, evidently, spilling enough water for it to be Niagara Falls. I dash to the kitchen, almost slipping on the white tile floor. Recovering from what was practically a fall I grip the hot lid of the pot, realizing too late that Chelsea is right. I am an idiot. I promptly drop the scorching lid on the ground and stare at my blistering hand. When I finally look up again, Chelsea is stirring the macaroni and glaring at me as if to say I may be younger but I’m definitely smarter.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a real moron. Doesn’t mean you have to act so condescending,” I mumble, straining for the freezer.
“You’re more than a moron, you’re a complete nincompoop,” Chelsea adds. She tugs a doggy bag from the cabinet and helps me cram ice cubes into it. “Honestly,” she sighs, “what would a big brother like you do without his little sister?” She crosses her arms and shakes her head, unable to believe the situation I find myself in. I grasp the baggy tightly.
“Hmm, let me think about that.” I hold my fingers to my chin as if to stroke an imaginary beard. “Well, I’d probably have nicer stuff ‘cuz I would be an only child. I might even get to pick what we have for dinner every night,” I tease. Chelsea makes a pouty face.
“Sean, you’re a jerk!”
“I’ll have to add that to my repertoire of all the other things I am, then.” I place the bag of ice in the sink.
After stomping her feet some more Chelsea turns around and sulks all the way to her room, groaning with every step. I laugh, amused that she would become upset so quickly. Chuckling quietly, I bump into my mother who inspects me with an eyebrow raised.
“What are ya doin’?” She asks, peering behind me.
I purse my lips. I should’ve known mom would be just around the corner. “Nothin’,” I reply, fully aware she knows what I was up to.
“Uh-huh…” Her special ‘mom-gaze’ bores into my soul. “Is the macaroni done?” Changing the subject - she’s trying to get me to reveal my secrets.
“Yup. We’re set and ready to add the cheese,” I counter. Mom bites her lip, eyes fixated on me.
“Last question: who were you talking to?”
I have to try really hard not to laugh. How could she not know who I was talking to? Dad was at work, meaning that mom, Chelsea and I were the only ones home. Plus, there’s no way I would talk to myself.
Inhaling deeply, I respond. “I was talking to Chelsea. Who else?” I snort, hoping my mother would acknowledge how stupid her interrogation was.
I grow stone cold when I see she is not smiling but rather gone pale as an albino rabbit in a crisp winter snow.
Her eyes enlarge, allowing me to see every speck of color in her lifeless blue eyes. “Chelsea?”
I gnaw on my cheek. “Yeah, Chelsea. Is there something wrong with that?” My hands break out in a cold sweat. Mom nibbles on her bottom lip so much it starts to bleed, dark red liquid pooling on the left side of her mouth. “Mom, are you okay?” I clutch onto mom’s shoulder, shaking her. She stands motionless, as if any sound or movement she made would cause an earthquake large enough to tear apart all of North America.
Mom gulps and takes heavy, awkward breaths, each one developing louder and more cumbersome than the last. When she notices me, frightened and worried, she makes a point to calm herself by slowing her straddling gasps and laying a frozen, clammy hand on my shoulder. Mom wipes the blood on her white sleeve with her other hand, scrutinizing the thick fluid as it seeps through her ivory cardigan. “Do… do you really remember Chelsea?” She whimpers, observing the blood stain all the while.
Do I remember Chelsea? Do I remember Chelsea? She’s my sister! She’s the little brat who screams like a banshee to wake me up every morning and then makes my favorite kind of cupcake. Of course I would be able to recall her, just as much as I would mom or dad! But in that case, why is mom asking me if I remember her? Is it some sort of test? Is mom going crazy? Maybe I should call someone… Speaking of which, where is Chelsea? “Um, I know who Chelsea is. Why wouldn’t I?” I respond, weary of mom’s bizarre attitude.
“Oh God, Sean. I didn’t realize you remembered… Do you want to talk to me abou-” I stand up. I need to go find Chelsea. Mom will go back to normal if I can find that little dweeb. I’ll show mom that I’m alright and Chelsea is doing fine, then mom will be okay, too. “S-Sean, where are you going?”
I turn to look mom in the eye. “I’m gonna go find Chelsea. Everything is hunky-dory and I’ll prove it to you - I’ll be right back.” I clomp up the stairs, legs heavy as lead. I shiver as I hear a voice in my head, shrill and weak.
Don’t go to Chelsea’s room. Don’t go to Chelsea’s room, unless you want to experience pain and turmoil like no other. I shove the voice to darkest part of my whirling mind, trying my best to forget its presence. Don’t go to Chelsea’s room. My knees buckle halfway up the stairs. A few steps seems like a hallway of never-ending change. Every stride forces me in a new direction. Don’t go to Chelsea’s room. I crawl up the carpeted stairs, each movement inflicting agonizing pain coursing through the whole of my body. More anguish awaits you if you do not stop NOW. I’m so close I can hear Chelsea’s choice songs blasting from the speakers I got her for her ninth birthday, two years ago. DON’T GO TO CHELSEA’S ROOM. The voice swells in volume so much I have to wail so as not to lose the way I’ve already lost. My hand grazes the old brass doorknob. DON’T GO TO CHELSEA’S ROOM! My head feels as if it is about to split open, revealing all the torturous thoughts I had been doing so well to conceal. ENTER AND YOU WILL BE PUNISHED!
I open the door anyway.
A stinging winter wind blows the silk curtains in a rippling wave of rose pink and lilac purple. The open window is shattered into millions of tiny pieces, scattered across the tan rug like a harsh desert sand. Those are the only contents of the room. No bed, no drawers, no bookshelf, and no speakers from two years ago. A vacant room detaining no sounds except for wind strewing shimmering glass across the dirty floor and heaving sobs, heavy enough to break the air, thin like a sleek mirror. It takes a moment for me to realize they are my own tears, shredding through the environment as if they are sharp knives, ready to impale anything or anyone who dares to crack the silence even more.
Someone wraps a feathery blanket around my icy skin, relieving me from the cold. It’s mom.
“You had a childhood friend long ago, Sean. Unfortunately, she died in a traumatic car accident and you never quite recovered. Then, one day, you just up and forgot about her. Your father and I didn’t want to remind you of the pain you went through, so we never told you.” Her supple fingers cup my cheek. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. No 15-year-old should ever have to go through this sort of experience.”
“Why is the window broken? What does that have to do with my sister?” I stammered.
“Sean, you broke the window. And, as for your sister, you never had one.We- your father and I... didn... real...ize yo... hallu...ations...so bad...” Her voice fades out.
I see blood. I see broken glass. I see car crashes. I see everything except Chelsea.